Forbidden Fruit
by Demented Inu
Summary: Wyatt Earp always insisted that America was too young to drink. Doc Holliday had different ideas. USA/Doc Holliday


**-1880-**

From the very moment Alfred had laid eyes on them in the magnificent faux-Chinese atmosphere of the Oriental saloon, he'd known he would love the Earp brothers. Really, there wasn't a thing about them that wasn't to like – they were bold, friendly to the friendly folk, brave, honest, trustworthy… everything Alfred had always wanted in friends. They were handsome, and skilled in the handling of guns; each was married like a mighty fine Christian man, and their wives were some of the most beautiful women Alfred had ever seen.

Wyatt had been the one to really catch his attention out of the three. His Kansas tale had been spread to all out here in Tombstone, Arizona (such a quaint little boomtown, such hopeful and inspiring individuals, if you could look past the crime). Wyatt was a man of the law, a real patriot – of course Alfred liked him. That's how this had all started, after all: traveling from his New York City home to check on this little economic hiccup of a town, and finding the Earps instead.

It was hero worship, and America knew it as well as anyone else. Alfred followed him around like he was some sort of idol (which, in Alfred's eyes, he might've been), asking to see his Peacekeeper again, his old badge or else intruding in on Wyatt's personal life and trying beyond trying to imitate him.

(Narrowing his eyes, thinning his mouth, bringing up his guns like they were everyday accessories.)

The first few days in Tombstone were spent dogging Wyatt, worshipping him, trying to pick up that suspicious look and wide smile and adopt it for his own; but strangely enough, it wasn't Wyatt who stuck.

Wyatt Earp had a friend. Well, that was putting it lightly, he supposed – no, John Henry Holliday was above and beyond what Alfred had seen of the bounds of 'friendship.' Holliday was a _best_ friend, a companion, the right-hand man who would take the bullet for Wyatt if it came down to it.

At first, Alfred wasn't sure if he liked Holliday or not; that honey-sweet trickle of a voice was too smooth, those eyes too dark with a deeper knowledge of what lie ahead.

But with a half-smile, a hat-tilt ("_You can call me 'Doc,' son_"), Alfred's heart fluttered, his face heated, and he could hardly remember who Wyatt _was_ anymore.

Perhaps it was his swelling-heart attachment to this Southern King that had him tailing Doc like a lost puppy, to the point where the men had to excuse Alfred into saloons (though he never got any alcohol; Virgil saw to that), or brothels ("_When you're a bit older, we'll even get you a good woman, boy_"), or anything else that required him to be of a certain age. This strong growing Nation had become the child pet of a group of drunken gunslingers—

And he'd never been happier in his life.

At the first sight of Doc and the Earps, the bartender simply waved them in despite the teenager tagging along. Alfred had to admit that maybe it wasn't the smartest move – Wyatt always vocally agreed in full ("_The boy's only fourteen, even if he is taller than me_") – but hey, if Doc said it was okay, then Alfred didn't mind bending a few of his own rules. Besides, it wasn't like he was drinking any; just watching the others get drunk after an exhaustingly long afternoon of suppressing Cowboy influence.

(Fred White's death had shocked the town. Alfred still had nightmares about those red sashes.)

"Another round!" Morgan's soft face lifted in a wide forget-your-troubles smile as he raised his now-empty mug. "It's on me. In fact, hell, a round for everyone! I'm in a celebratin' mood!"

Nobody cheered, but that was to be expected. There weren't many people left in the dim evening light, especially not after the violence today had offered (four shot, two killed – a mother and her son). Alfred laughed and nudged Morgan in the ribs. "Sure you can afford that?" he joked, though Wyatt just shook his head with a crooked smile of his own.

"You're cut off." Wyatt took the mug, held it away from his brother. "Can't have you stumblin' around town like a drunk, wastin' all our savings…"

"Ah, you ain't half as bad off as Doc," Alfred teased with a shoulder bump. "Wouldn't trust him to know right from left in this state. I feel like his babysitter."

At this, Doc – who had been nursing his own pint with a drunken look in his serene eyes – lifted the brim of his dark hat to see them better. His usual chalky complexion had the barest traces of an alcoholic flush to it. "Ain't you a daisy," he slurred, hooking one hand into the back of Alfred's belt and pulling the nation into a seat. "I'll have you know that I am as sober as a—"

Here he made to gesture mid-sentence, but the movement knocked Virgil's mug from the table. "Maybe we should cut you off too," Virgil chuckled. "Give the rest of your drink to the kid."

Alfred felt his face lift in a hopeful grin. "Yeah, Doc, I'll take the rest!" He knew it was a joke, but if he played his cards right, maybe he could wheedle a drink or two out of these drunks.

"When pigs fly, kid," Morgan told him, ruffling Alfred's hair. He didn't like that; he wasn't a colony anymore, tall enough to be mistaken for an adult with the wit to match it. But still, everyone treated him like he was some kind of toddler.

'Boy' and laughter and hair-riffling and down talk.

"Why not?" Alfred tried hard not to sound offended, but it was a touch difficult when he felt that was being demoted to childhood again, after working so hard to break free of England's chains back then.

Wyatt looked at him as though it were a stupid question; his mustache twitched a bit as he thought. "Because you're still just a kid. You're, what, fourteen? Squirts like you got no business drinking, nations or no."

"Fourteen?" Alfred felt so much older than that. He crossed his arms and tried to look determined. "Actually, I'm a hundred and four this July. Last I checked, that's older than you and Doc put together."

Looking a bit offended (Hah, showed up by a kid), Wyatt stood straighter as if to appear more intimidating, and narrowed his dark eyes at him. "Now see here-"

"Ah, Wyatt, don't start up that parental authoritative bullshit," Doc argued, leaning forward. "Al's right – if he desires to try his hand at drinking, I say we allow him room for that exploration."

The brothers – and Alfred – all looked to the drunken dentist in confusion. "But Doc—" Virgil began, to which Doc held up a hand to the bar, motioning for a refill.

Alfred smiled at him, happy for now because Doc appeared to understand what Alfred was trying to say. Alfred even looked a bit smug as he turned to the Earps. "Well? You gonna stop him?"

He'd never been more amused than he was watching Wyatt look completely affronted. America loved all his people, yes, and worshipped Wyatt like a God, but sometimes pissing him off was just far too much fun. He felt a thrill of victory as Wyatt stormed away, muttering something about checking up on Mattie, and his brothers looked almost apologetic as they followed in his wake.

Alfred liked Wyatt, certainly. He was just tired of being treated like a know-nothing little kid.

"I do believe you've frightened them off," Doc chuckled in amusement. It was only now that Alfred realizes this left the two alone in the saloon. Generic bar sounds settled into their silence – men singing off-key Stephen Foster in the corner, a few twittering working girls on their arms, gambling at a table opposite them – and Doc just kept looking at him, that spark of almost-laughter in his eyes.

(Alfred loved that look. He wanted to remove it from those eyes and keep it for himself, locked away somewhere precious, so he never had to worry about losing Doc to this disease of his.)

One of the barmaids came by with a shot of whisky and set it before them. Doc eyed her over, slid her a tip, and turned back to Alfred. "You still want your drink, trailblazer?"

Alfred blinked down at the whisky as Doc pushed it toward him. "What, you were serious?"

"Weren't you?" Doc's smile became a near challenging smirk. Alfred watched him slide that shot glass ever nearer, the tips of Doc's fingers pushing it toward him until it nearly touched his chest. (Like a serpent offering forbidden fruit.) "Your words are those of a lion, Mr. Jones. Don't go back to being a lamb so soon."

"Who… who said anything about going back on my words?" Alfred was looking at the drink, then at the bartender, then at the drink again. "Won't I get in trouble for this?"

Doc gave an apathetic shrug. "Where's the harm in having a bit of a good time?" he asked in his most innocent tone. (False innocence; Alfred had seen what Doc did to people, sometimes.) "Don't you fret, sunshine, my lips are sealed if you wanted to dabble in adulthood for the evening." That male mouth was smirking just slightly, enough to make Alfred look to the drink again, uncertain.

Yeah. Yeah, it was just bending a few rules – and he was no coward if it came to repercussions. Besides, he was the United States of America, wasn't he? The bold, the brave, the beautiful. Nobody in their right mind would ever convict him.

"…right." Trying to banish that childish hesitation, Alfred brought the shot glass up – cool and bubbling under his fingers, condensation wetting his skin – and took the shot.

And, being unused to the unpleasant burn through his throat, began to choke.

Doc laughed softly and patted his shoulder. "Perhaps it would be best to take my humble advice, trailblazer," he soothed. "Cool your eager heels until you're ready to swim with the big fish, Al. You aren't an adult yet."

Tears burned his eyes; whether from the whisky or the humiliation, he wasn't sure. He knew Doc wasn't trying to be cruel, merely trying to prove a point, but Alfred hated this feeling – like he was back with England all over again, like it wasn't worth even trying, like nothing he did was ever right.

"Now come along," Doc continued, beginning to gently steer him toward the saloon's exit; his hands were warm and thin on his shoulders. "Let's get you out of this place of sin, and find the Earps you so managed to offend."

Burning red and feeling like a stupid child, Alfred followed, if only to keep from disappointing himself further.


End file.
